


Departure

by Aloice



Category: Final Fantasy XIII Series
Genre: (if you were confused about what that one scene was), Faked Suicide, Gen, Psychological study, mentions of mental illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 02:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14511033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloice/pseuds/Aloice
Summary: Slightly stream-of-consciousness-y thing that explores a post-LR scenario where Hope doesn't end up with Lightning, and an image of Lumina begins to torment his mind.





	Departure

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cartoonmoomba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cartoonmoomba/gifts).



\- There once was a girl that everyone except him could see.

 

There once was the sound of scathing laughter and clicking heels,

Brutal honesty spitting compassion while adorned by feathers

Raven as the endless night of the chaos

and more splintered than strewn cobwebs –

 

\- And the more she evaded him, the more he promised.

 _I’ll find you_ , he says, heartbroken and terrified and waiting, all on his own, for the world of white to disappear in a brilliant flash,

 

And in the dream of the mutual human death, she didn’t laugh at him,

She took his hand.

 

.

.

**“... You’ll need to be a little more specific than that, Mr. Est – I mean, Hope.”**

**“She had been… _crafted_ from… rejection and regret.”**

.

.

Pale smoke. Closing doors. Dark-worn escalators. A fast pace, skyscrapers, drawn-out sighs and underappreciated street jazz. The smell of leaking gasoline. Cracks and puddles. Spotless shirt and tie, an earnest rush hour smile, cracks behind seafoam windows of the soul. _Breathe_ –

"Aw, stop spacing out like that. Do you even see me?"

A snap, and a spin. Suddenly all-too-focused eyes scanning the perimeter, a fear and a joy that just don't quite reach slightly parted lips. Reach out into the air. Hold out for a voice. There's nothing but the chill of the urban atmosphere.

“…Where?”

One impossible question, uttered just low enough to not appear like a lunatic in the middle of a downtown street. A homeless man glances up in an ironic kind of understanding. Smiles back uneasily. A forced tug of a well-concealed yellow wristband beneath a dark sleeve, a forced inhale, then accelerated steps towards the work building.

.

.

**“She resembles a… woman I used to know.”**

.

.

To think that he believed – for a foolish moment, for any moment at all – that rose-haired phantoms would be behind him. It cannot be Lumina; Lumina is Light – is _Claire_ – and the real rose-haired woman sounds content enough on the phone, would sit down with him for coffee any evening of the week if he simply texts to ask. They’ve strolled down downtown streets together, him water-still in pastel colors and her statuesque in dark shades and long sleek dresses of wine and mauve. He’s joked with her there, looked up for her the dates of the next sales promotions and shows, even helped her hold down a scoundrel after the man tried to harass another girl – but through all the streets and all the hours the sky above his heart is unreal, and with every nod to every smile, every word just becomes a little more bitter to swallow –

“Gods, Hope.” Claire Farron frowns at him as they wait outside Snow and Serah’s door, her piercing eyes moving from the top of his silver head down to the immaculate shine of his black leather shoes. Familial fondness and unburdened respect. “Are you ever not prepared?”

 _Have I ever prepared to be myself?_ An unbearable flash of rose just outside the edge of his vision. A maniacal giggle. Something trying to reel him outside of his skin again. He smiles up at the familiar but oh-so-alien sight of mentor-turned-goddess-turned-woman-next-door, remains grateful just to know that she is real. “Someone’s got to be dependable, don’t you think?”

.

.

**“Relationship issues?”**

**“Unrequited love, post-traumatic stress disorder, Oedipus complex and schizophrenia. And those are just the things that the last psychologist speculated that I had.” A small head tilt, with just enough longing in the ocean waves to disarm even as they drown. “Here are my files – all compiled under different names.”**

.

.

“How much do you remember?” The child asks gleefully as she swings effortlessly from one apparatus to another, kicks a lost ball back towards the playground. The dark-haired red-robed toddler screams in delight – grins too widely in the imaginary rosette’s general direction – and is hurriedly picked up and led away by an adult. He sits cross-legged in the sand pit, picking on fresh fallen sakura petals. They are both too old for slides and castles.

“Why are you here?” He asks, ignoring her question. The migraine from the other night had reminded him of a possibility – a nightmare, an eddy of cosmic fear coiling like a viper in his stomach. “I found you. I _saved_ you. I saw you there, with her, _becoming_ her. She's _her_ , happy, united with her sister at last, walking tall in the world she's managed to save. The Claire Farron I know isn’t _wrong_.”

“Perhaps she isn’t,” Still that exasperating patience – still that refraction that resists his pupils, a silhouette that carelessly escapes his view and hold. He had been God’s eyes; an instrument, a vessel. An even further flashback to the time of chaos and the hidden Temple of Etro: it’s when he finally got to touch his hallucinations that they became real. “But what if _you_ are?”

“Why are you not the adult Light, then? Why take on the guise of a child? Why are we here?” He’s talking back, questioning, wondering. It’s the last thing that he should be doing. Thinking has never gotten him anywhere. Sentimental thinking would only –

“Don’t you miss – childhood? Being looked after and loved? Having someone to pick _you_ up? Now who did you exactly give up all the way back there to try to find and save _me_ , hmm? Shouldn’t I stay here to keep you company when they are not here anymore?”

“Don’t leave, then,” he whispers and hates himself for it, peels off the petals until there are only dead flowers in the sand and the emptiness of dead playgrounds in his mind. “Love me and don’t leave me alone.”

“Now, do you _really_ need to add pedophilia to your list of potential problems?”

.

.

**“Before everything else: I’m going to need you to tell me that I’m not being possessed by a God. Yes, I know it sounds crazy, but – since we all know it’s crazy – just tell me. I’d sleep better just knowing that I’m a terrible human being.”**

.

.

“You are struggling,” she observes from barely inches behind him one night, as he parks the car on the side of the street and reaches into his pockets for the house key. His slightly panicked breaths are choking in this throat as he fumbles, then turns the key too quickly, fleeing up the stairs and slamming the door behind him. “Oh, look at this – and you’re not even going to tell her about this, are you?”

“You are in my mind,” he says, burying his head into the pillow and willing himself to not hear her, not imagine her, not fall for the lie that her continued existence in his life means that some part of Lightning Farron has ever wanted to be with him. _I’ve already failed the world once. I’m not going to fail it again. Not when we’ve gotten this far. Not when everyone’s happy at last._  “You are not real.”

“Look at you, just like every single one of those Yeuls – so sympathetic, so kind, so utterly and completely _human_ , and yet, why can’t you just let your despair go?”

“I’ll get over it. I must. I will.” There’s something glinting under the pillow. “If you really were Light, you would know when to leave me alone. And if you aren’t her – well, I’ll show you just how far I’m willing to go.”

“Are you really prepared to kill Hope?”

He points it against his head, pulls the trigger.

She pats him on the head gently and brings him a towel as he crumbles onto the floor.

.

.

**Hope Estheim brushes aside a few locks of silver hair, shows a small rounded scar. Although it doesn’t seem to indicate a serious past injury, the look on his face as he touches the mark is both rueful and pensive.**

**“I set up a scenario and figured out that she wasn’t real – but that didn’t convince me that she wasn’t supernatural.”**

.

.

Lumina is truly both a paragon of, and the farthest possible thing from, a rose-haired phantom. Unlike her predecessors, she does not even pretend to harbor affection for him; just like her predecessors, she haunts his every move, sitting in the guest chair of his office as he works and whispering things in his ear as he commutes to and from home. A tireless energy seems to drive her, stubbornness and possessiveness and guilt. He takes to give her pieces of his breakfast and lunch. She has a special fondness for cotton candy and dark chocolate.

“What are you trying to do?” She demands one day in between nibbles, her legs swinging like a pendulum a few feet away from him as they are wont to do when she takes her spot in the office lounge. “Are you gonna try to _adopt_ me, or something?”

“I wouldn’t mind that, honestly,” he says, tired and defeated and almost glad that she’s there, tearing apart yet another packet of powdered sugar to dump into his coffee. If the girl has been sent by Bhunivelze, God’s winning the war of attrition. If the girl’s just on his mind… well, he can grow old with a dead heart. Probably. It’s probably a sign that they’ve both mellowed out, grown numb. “But you’ll have to play nice.”

“When was I ever _not_ nice?”

“Stop trying to understand me _too_ well, for starters,” a rub to the temple – is he slowly falling asleep? – “and… ugh… I guess I’m not feeling too well.”

“Should have gotten up when I told you to.”

“But you woke me up first at five in the morning, then twenty minutes after that, then…” The pain is overwhelming. When has he become so weak? “…”

“Hope?”

“I need help,” he mumbles, falling from his chair and struggling to get back up, angry at himself for not having fought more, not feeling more broken now, not being – _this could well be the end of the world, if it’s really Bhunivelze throwing things at you_ – but he’s alone and she’s peering down at him and again he knows he’s alone at the end of the world.

The sound of a call on his phone; the universe beckons, and Hope Estheim knows where he must go. One arm forms a trembling anchor as the other slowly pulls the torso up. _I won’t let my demons destroy this world, even if just for myself._

“… Hello. Yes. I called to schedule an appointment?”

.

.

**“I’m sure you’ve heard stories of patients becoming too fond of their imaginary friends – and perhaps I’d be loath to lose her too, as unhealthy as our interactions have been – but I’m not going to take any chances. This w- my work is too important.”**

**“Shouldn’t you take some time off from work to recover? Mental illnesses are less stigmatized than they were before, and you seem to be financially stable without any immediate dependents to support…”**

**The look on his face is crooked. “Giving me too much time alone with my thoughts only makes it worse. And that’s not to say – I’m currently in the process of overseeing an entire urban development project. Thousands will go without affordable housing if I don’t stick to my post.”**

**“You’ll be looking at antipsychotic medication.”**

**“I’ve done my research.” A small moment of hesitation, and then an all-too-knowing smile. “You can either help me, or you can’t. Bhunivelze, may he still be asleep, will be the judge of that. I’m just trying to take a chance.” The crystals of the irises fracture, then liquify into the first snow melt of spring. “And? I figured someone should know.”**

**“You could have gotten the prescription yourself.” It isn’t a question.**

**“Indeed. But you’ve heard me. I’m nowhere as strong as I want to be. And I’ve learned the hard way to not trust myself too much.” An abashed – but terribly sincere – grin. “Make a note of my emergency contact, will you? Might come in handy.”**

**“… Claire Farron. I understand.”**

.

.

“Lumina?”

Outside the psychiatrist’s office, sitting next to him at the bus station, she looks up to him questioningly. He takes out an item from each pocket: a small bottle of pills and a small bar of chocolate. Breaking off a piece, he hands the chocolate to her, before biting into the remainder of the bar himself. The bottle is tucked right back into the pocket.

“Being happy is difficult – but we’re going to get there, you hear me?”

She blinks incredulously – then studies the confectionary in her hands for just a moment before swallowing it whole as well. “So you think – I’m _yours_?”

“Bhunivelze doesn’t feel like the chocolate type.” Alone in the misty rain, there’s only the sound of slow chocolate crunching. “I will admit, getting hallucinations of… Light’s abandoned heart of all things don’t say that many good things about me, but a lot of other things also don’t. I know myself by now. I have things to work on.”

“So you’re just going to go? And leave me here? In the rain?” Her voice isn’t even accusatory. She is simply staring at him, waiting. The bus pulls up and she doesn’t budge from her chair even as he stands, steps into the rain. The outline of her blurs.

“Let’s go.”

He reaches out, embraces her and raises her up. A familiar sequence of actions – he had been the same with the real Lumina in the chaos. Perhaps his Lumina wouldn’t merge with him now. But perhaps he’s okay with taking the time to work it out.

“We’ll go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I suspect this isn't a particularly original work in my oeuvre; I also have a lot of... issues with how it was done, but I figured there are still some good parts in this that are worth sharing. (My most sincere apologies for cartoonmoomba.) I have a lot of feelings about post-LR Hope and a lot of them revolve around how I just don't see a lot of ways for him to be really happy - there are ways, to be sure (see: stuff like Radiance), but if he doesn't end up with Light (which is a legitimate possibility) a lot of those ways will dry up and he'll have to somehow continue on his own. I'd like to think that Hope will go on; mostly believe that he will, hence the ending of this, and calling it Departure (in the optimistic fashion) - but it's still quite sad to think about, and quite sad to try to convey.


End file.
